They enjoyed being among a crowd of people; every one of them understood life in his own way, not as Oblomov understood it, and they kept dragging him into it: he resented it all, disliked it, and was antagonized by it.

There was one man only whom he was fond of; he, too, gave him no peace; he liked the latest news, and society, and learning, and life as a whole, but, somehow, more deeply and sincerely – and though Oblomov was kind to everyone, he loved only him and trusted him alone, perhaps because they were brought up, educated, and had lived together. This man was Andrey Karlovich Stolz. He was away, but Oblomov was expecting him back any moment.

4

‘MORNING, old man,’ said Tarantyev abruptly, holding out a hirsute hand to Oblomov. ‘Why are you lying like a log at this hour?’

‘Don’t come near, don’t come near, you’re straight from the cold street,’ said Oblomov, covering himself up with a blanket.

‘Good Lord, from the cold street!’ Tarantyev roared. ‘There, take my hand, if I give it to you! It’ll soon be twelve o’clock and he’s still lounging about!’

He was going to drag Oblomov from the bed, but Oblomov forestalled him by putting his feet quickly on the floor and getting into both his slippers at once.

‘I was just about to get up myself,’ he said, yawning.

‘I know how you get up! You’d have lain there till dinner. Hey, there, Zakhar! Where are you, you old fool? Help your master to dress and be quick about it!’

‘You’d better get a Zakhar of your own first, sir, and then start calling him names!’ said Zakhar, coming into the room and looking spitefully at Tarantyev. ‘Look at the mess you’ve made on the floor – just like a hawker,’ he added.

‘No backchat from you, my lad,’ said Tarantyev, lifting his foot to kick Zakhar as he walked past him; but Zakhar stopped, turned round, and scowled.

‘Just try to touch me,’ he wheezed furiously. ‘What do you think you’re doing? I’ll go back,’ he said, walking back to the door.

‘Good heavens, Tarantyev, what a cantankerous fellow you are! Why can’t you leave him alone?’ said Oblomov. ‘Give me my clothes, Zakhar.’

Zakhar came back and, looking askance at Tarantyev, darted past him.

Leaning on Zakhar, Oblomov reluctantly rose from his bed like a man who was very tired and as reluctantly walked to an arm-chair, sank into it, and sat still. Zakhar took the pomatum, a comb and brushes from a small table, greased Oblomov’s hair, parted it, and then brushed it.

‘Will you wash now, sir?’ he asked.

‘I’ll wait a little,’ Oblomov replied. ‘You can go now.’

‘Oh, you’re here too, are you?’ Tarantyev said suddenly to Alexeyev while Zakhar was brushing Oblomov’s hair. ‘I never saw you. Why are you here? What a swine that relative of yours is! I’ve been meaning to tell you – –’

‘What relative? I have no relative,’ Alexeyev said timidly, staring in surprise at Tarantyev.

‘Why, that fellow – what do you call him? The fellow who’s in the Civil Service – Afanasyev. You don’t mean to say he’s no relative of yours? Of course he is!’

‘But I’m not Afanasyev – I’m Alexeyev,’ said Alexeyev. ‘I have no relatives.’

‘What do you mean – no relative? Why, he’s just as poor a specimen as you are – and his name’s also Vassily Nikolayevich.’

‘I swear he’s no relation of mine. My name is Ivan Alexeyich.’

‘Makes no difference. He looks like you. But he’s a swine. You tell him so when you see him.’

‘I don’t know him,’ said Alexeyev, opening his snuff-box. ‘Never seen him.’

‘Let’s have a pinch of your snuff,’ said Tarantyev. ‘Why, yours is ordinary snuff, not French! Yes, so it is,’ he said, taking a pinch. ‘Why isn’t it French?’ he added sternly. ‘I’ve never met a swine like that relative of yours,’ he went on. ‘I borrowed fifty roubles from him about two years ago. Fifty roubles – not such a big sum, is it? You might have expected him to forget it. But not at all – he remembered. A month later he began pestering me, asking me every time he met me: “What about that loan?” I got sick and tired of the sight of him. And as if that wasn’t enough, he barged into my office yesterday. “I expect,” he said, “you’ve got your salary to-day and can repay me now.” My salary, indeed! I told him off properly in front of everybody and he was glad to get out, I can tell you. “I’m a poor man,” he said, “I need the money!” As if I didn’t need it! Who does he take me for? A rich man, to give him fifty roubles every time he asks for it? Let’s have a cigar, old man!’

‘You’ll find the cigars in the box there,’ replied Oblomov, pointing to a bookcase.

He was sitting pensively in the arm-chair in his customary picturesquely lazy pose, not noticing what was happening round him or listening to what was being said.